


Vigil

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Post-War of the Ring, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2003-06-08
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo and Sam struggle to keep watch…over each other.  Post quest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tremors and Truths

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

**Author's note:**  
This story further expands on ideas introduced in "The Inner Light", which can also be found on this site.

_For my mentor, my moral support, and my cheerleaders. You know who you are…_

*******

Something was changing. Sam could see it…in the way Frodo nervously glanced at him, seemingly longing to tell him something, but then relenting at the last moment. In the way Frodo's voice had become quieter, as if it was easier to keep it from shaking this way. In the way that Frodo's talk was changing…he seemed to care less about the doings of the Shire now, and spoke more of old memories, pleasant times they had had before either one knew anything of the cruel malice of the Ring.

Most of all, he could see it in the look in Frodo's eyes. When his burden had been lifted from him on Mount Doom, although he was devastated by the loss of the Ring, his eyes had lost that shuttered quality, that wild look of a trapped animal longing to be free, and at the same time walling itself off from impending danger. That look that his eyes had possessed after they had entered Mordor, when Frodo had truly begun to fight the power of the ring. That gleam was coming back…slowly, but Sam could still see it. He longed to ask Frodo what was pursuing him, what was going on that he couldn't see.

The first strange thing that Sam noticed occurred after supper one night not long after he and Rosie had joined Frodo at Bag End. Frodo had seemed a bit tired and withdrawn that day. He had stayed in the study for most of the afternoon, which was not usual. He was almost unbearably quiet through dinner, and Sam thought it odd that several times Frodo seemed about to reach for something with his right hand but aborted the movement in midair and deliberately placed his hand back into his lap. Sam was in charge of clearing the supper dishes, and Frodo usually would linger about the kitchen and assist him when Sam would allow it, or at the very least talk to him as he worked.

Frodo stood up from the meal hesitantly, his eyes nervously flitting in Sam's direction, then quickly down to fix on the plate before him. He attempted to pick it up with one hand, but as he tried to lift it, it waffled and clanged noisily on the table. Frodo quickly rescued the plate using both hands, trying to conceal it, but even with both hands tightly gripping his burden as he carried it from the table to the wash basin, Sam noticed Frodo's hands shaking—not the way they would tremble from fatigue, but tremoring, almost beyond his control. Sam was alarmed, but obviously Frodo did not want him to be aware of whatever was going on, so he did his best to ignore it and continue with the washing up. Frodo apparently had decided to leave the rest of the cleaning to Sam, as Sam noticed him putting on a kettle of water for fresh tea.

Several heartbeats later Sam peered over his shoulder just in time to see Frodo's favorite tea mug escape his unsteady grasp and crash to the floor. Frodo swore in frustration as he stooped to pick up the scattered fragments with hands that betrayed him, would not obey his command.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he muttered as he tried to gather the strewn pieces together; Sam walked over and stopped him, knelt on the floor beside him and took Frodo's trembling hands together between his own.

"What's the matter, mister Frodo, are you ill?" he asked, trying to contain the worry and anxiety racing through his mind. He remembered tremors like this, had seen them before…he had vivid memories of those same slender, graceful hands covered with filth and shaking like leaves in a stiff autumn wind…on the journey to Mount Doom.

For just a moment Frodo seemed on the verge of confiding something—his chin quivered as he stared at the floor in front of him, but he swallowed audibly, quickly regaining his composure.

"I'm fine, Sam, just a little tired today," Frodo replied, his eyes downcast for a moment to hide whatever truth they may have revealed against his wishes. When Frodo looked back up at him, his eyes were clear, silently begging Sam to let it drop for now, to let it go.

Sam obeyed his master's unspoken plea.

"Well, if you're that tired that you're gonna be loose with my crockery, maybe you should get some extra rest this evenin'," Sam teased, grinning amiably at Frodo, forcing a mirth he did not feel.

Frodo cracked a small smile at this, and seemed greatly relieved as Sam gathered up the rest of the shattered mug from the floor.

"I think I will retire early, Sam, please bid Rose good evening for me."

Blue eyes met his and held as Frodo rose unsteadily from the floor, but only long enough to assure Sam that all was well.

Frodo turned, tea forgotten, and Sam watched him as he retreated to his room, wondering what was going on inside his master's mind and why he felt he needed to conceal it from his dear Sam.

As he returned to the wash basin, he began thinking over their time since the quest…

When they had first returned to the Shire, things had seemed fine. Frodo was still quite pale and as thin as ever, but he seemed in the best spirits since they had awoken in Ithilien. Seeing his master so content had quite pleased him, and he had gone happily about his work rebuilding the Shire. He was not around much in those first few months, so busy was he at planting and overseeing the many tasks inherent in wiping away the stain of Saruman from his dear country. Frodo had stayed with the Cotton's, and then moved back to Bag End after its restoration. Sam had been thrilled at the prospect of joining Frodo at Bag End with his new bride—this way he could have all that he loved most gathered into one place.

Those first few weeks had been glorious—Rosie keeping house for both of them, Frodo puttering about, reading, spending time with him in the garden, and he himself, gleefully absorbed in his new life, tending his garden and his bride and his master to his heart's content. It had seemed like a paradise…as if nothing in this world could be better.

Sam sighed heavily as he put away the last of the dishes. He would bide his time and observe. He loved Frodo dearly, but he also knew what that thing had done to him, even if Frodo himself still could not recall those grueling last days on the mountain. Frodo needed to be surrounded by love, but he also needed space. He had always been one to do things on his own, stubborn hobbit that he was, and whatever was bothering him he seemed intent to deal with by himself too. Frodo would come around, he always did. And perhaps there was nothing to this. Perhaps Frodo was just tired, and Sam himself was seeing things that were not really there. Perhaps…

Sam cast these thoughts away in one swift motion as he tossed the dishtowel onto the peg next to the basin; but he couldn't help glancing worriedly at the closed door in the hallway as he went to join Rosie in the parlor.

***

Frodo closed the bedroom door with both trembling hands gripping the knob behind him, and slid numbly down its length as the bolt clicked home. Tears of sorrow and frustration rolled unheeded down his cheeks as he sat there, knees drawn up before him, and stared at his tremoring hands lying nervelessly in his lap. He gave up the struggle. As he let his head wearily fall back against the wood, his right hand moved of its own accord to his chest and unerringly pinpointed the spot where it would find the Ring. Where it should find the Ring. His whole body shivered as his hand searched and found only Arwen's white gem on the chain about his neck. Although it did provide some comfort, the gem was conveniently placed—his hand would encounter it as he involuntarily grasped for the Ring. The Ring was not there, it never would be again. Searing pain ripped through his mind, as the anguish of Its loss enkindled anew in every fiber of his being. He pressed the heels of his unsteady hands into his eyes, as if he could combat the onslaught with merely his palms and struggled there for a moment until he found what he needed.

He was back in Buckland, running through the meadow that bordered the Brandywine, heading for the treehouse that he and Merry had built. Merry was on his heels, trying desperately to overtake him, and with a final burst of speed the younger hobbit succeeded and sent them both tumbling in the grass, rolling over each other again and again, squealing with laughter and finally landing in a tangled hobbitpile. The memory brought a faint smile to his lips, and eased the pain in his head enough that he could breathe again without gasping.

What was the matter with him today? He'd had his problems in dealing with the loss of the Ring, but it had never before been like this, or at least not in a very long time…

He remembered what seemed like an age ago when he had awoken in Ithilien. He could remember nothing of his dreadful journey, even the attempt to focus his mind on it had caused him excruciating pain. So he had focused on the good memories he was able to reclaim and he had held them aloft in his mind against the shadow of the Ring just as he had held Galadriel's phial against the insidious evil that was Shelob. He had vowed to withstand the longing for the Ring, to spite It for everything It had done to him.

Sam had awoken and Merry and Pippin had come, and he had been able to convince them that everything would be fine. He had used those blissful memories, clung to them with all the force of his will when lust or anguish borne from the Ring had threatened to consume him. Although it often took all the strength he possessed, he managed to conceal it from their eyes; he had learned to control it.

But today, today he could not control it. The weight of the Ring bore down heavily upon him. All day he had conjured up memories to cling to, to keep his mind from falling into lust for the Ring, but by the end of the day he had just run out of strength to keep the hunger at bay. His hands had betrayed him. Despite summoning every ounce of self-control he could muster, he could not keep them from tremoring, could not keep his right hand from straying over his breast in search of the Ring. He knew Sam had noticed this at dinner. He had seen his friend's watchful eyes take note as he forcefully returned his hand to his lap, time and again. Blessedly, Sam had let it drop and allowed him to escape without questions, without calling upon him to explain something that he did not understand himself. His hands yet trembled there in his lap, and although it was not as severe as even a few minutes before, he just could not still them.

This was not getting any better. He had hoped that as time passed, his longing for the Ring would fade, and he would be able to put that part of his dreadful recent past behind him, even if he could not yet escape the dark void that remained within his thoughts, the place where the memories from Mordor dwelt. That place still caused him great pain every time he drew near, so he did his best to avoid any thought about it. But this, this he had thought he could deal with. He was fooling himself. The Ring was his first thought in the morning as he awoke, and his last wish in the evening as sleep took him. This would never change. He resembled Gollum now more closely than he ever imagined he could—he would never be rid of his need for the Ring. But unfortunately for him, while Gollum had striven to possess the Ring and had tracked it all over Middle Earth, he had no such option, because the object of his ever-gnawing desire no longer existed. Gollum had fared better than he had—he had always been within arm's reach of the Ring, could taste his victory as he pursued It, and had finally passed out of existence with It, while Frodo himself was left to mourn Its crushing absence for the rest of his days.

For the rest of his days… This stark realization drove him to the brink of utter despair. There was no way to overcome the Ring. He would just have to struggle with his desire for It in an unending battle to retain his sanity. He bowed his head to his knees, as fresh tears stung his eyes and threatened to spill down his cheeks.

No. He would not give in to this. It may be true that his desire for the Ring would never abate, but he did have weapons. The memories he recalled still had power. They were strong enough to bring light to outshine the lure of the Ring. And maybe things would not be this bad again. Maybe he was just tired today, and that was why his lust for the Ring had had so much influence over him. Maybe…

He rose unsteadily from the floor, lit a taper and changed his clothes for bed, his hands still quivering as he buttoned his nightshirt.  



	2. Shadows in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam struggle to keep watchover each other. Post quest.

From that day on Sam began keeping a closer eye on Frodo than he had before. To his shock and dismay he noticed many things he had not seen, or perhaps had been unwilling to see. He noticed that the tremors were not just that one day, but in fact many.

Some days Frodo's hands would be still at the supper table but on other days he would notice them trembling slightly. On still others it would be as bad as it had been that first day he had noticed, violent and debilitating. On those days Frodo would excuse himself from supper, politely stating that he was not very hungry, and he would close himself off in his room for the remainder of the evening. In general Frodo no longer spent the evenings in the sitting room by the fire with them. He would either withdraw to his room or lock himself away in his study directly after supper.

His master looked tired. Although it seemed as if Frodo was sleeping often enough, the dark circles under his eyes never seemed to disappear. Sam knew he had begun writing the tale of the War of the Ring in Bilbo's great red book; he would find pages of notes strewn about the study whenever he was brave enough to enter on the pretense of searching for a book he wished to read. Maybe Frodo was staying up into the night to write?

***

Sam was startled from sleep by a high, piercing wail. He sat still for a moment, attempting to get his bearings, but a heartbeat later he leaped from his and Rosie's bed as he heard muffled cries from down the hall. His heart froze in terror. The voice he heard was Frodo's. He flew down the hallway, past Frodo's room, to the chest sitting in the parlor. Without hesitation he flung the box open and drew out Sting, unsheathing the blade with a low metallic whine as he strode purposefully back up the hallway.

He paused for a second outside Frodo's door, steeling himself for whatever lay ahead as fear and fury battled to consume him. At the sound of Frodo's voice rising in another scream of denial, Sam burst through the doorway, heart hammering in his chest, and stopped dead on the threshold. Frodo was alone. There was no motion in the room save the flicker of a single candle playing off the walls, and his master struggling with an unseen foe born of hallucination.

Sam dropped Sting with a loud clang, which startled Frodo into stillness. His master was sitting bolt upright in the middle of the bed, drenched in sweat, still held in the iron grip of some demon memory. Frodo began struggling again, lashing out with fists and fingernails and trying to shift himself backwards on the bed and away from the invisible danger.

Sam stood there, struck dumb by the sight before him. The anguish that welled up in him as he watched Frodo suffer was almost more than he could bear. He had to do something to stop it. He approached Frodo warily, slowly sat down on the bed beside him. He embraced his master, holding his slight form fiercely, whispering words of love and comfort until Frodo stopped struggling and collapsed in wrenching sobs against his shoulder. Now that the shock and panic were over, Sam's own tears mixed with Frodo's and they held each other that way, one in pain from within and one in pain for the other, until both were still.

Sam pulled Frodo back and held him by the shoulders, gazing deeply into his eyes for some sign that the nightmare had faded, that Frodo was again with him and the terror had passed. Although he met Sam's eyes, Frodo's gaze was still laced with pain and fear, as if whatever he had seen still played in his mind and was interfering with reality.

"Shh, Frodo, it was only a nightmare. You're safe now," he muttered softly.

Frodo nodded numbly. Sam gently eased his master back down onto the bed, wiping the sweat from his forehead and straightening the blanket over him. He sat there on the side of the bed and clasped his hands over Frodo's, to reassure him that this was reality and that nothing would harm him here, not anymore.

But his reassurance was a lie and he knew it. He could not protect Frodo from this anymore than he had been able to protect him from the effects of the Ring during their journey. He could not stand between Frodo and this enemy, for the foe was within Frodo himself. All he could do was watch…that was the most painful thing of all. He would have gladly faced down any enemy for Frodo, no matter how ominous and powerful, as opposed to witnessing the battle from a distance and having no weapon to lend to the struggle. He was struck by a feeling of utter uselessness, and wondered how long Frodo had been struggling with these phantoms alone. He kept vigil there until Frodo's tremors ceased and he was claimed by sleep once again.

***

Frodo awoke with a start, drenched in sweat from the heat of the late summer morning and a bit disoriented. He looked blearily about the room. One of Bilbo's books lying on the floor beside the bed and his reading candle burnt down to the metal rim of its holder. He had fallen asleep reading. Had it been early? As he rose from the bed he found he had some difficulty untangling himself from the sheets, and a great weariness settled over him as he made ready for the day. It couldn't have been early when he fell asleep; he felt like he hadn't slept at all.

As he made his way from the bedroom, he could already hear Sam bustling about, laying out first breakfast for him and Rosie. He was about to enter the kitchen as a silver flicker caught his eye from down the hall. There, leaning in the corner next to Sam and Rosie's door, was Sting. The mere sight of the travel-worn weapon sent an icy shiver down his spine. What was Sting doing out in the hallway? He padded down the hall and retrieved the sword, a bit annoyed that Sam would take it out and have it lying about after everything that had befallen them while they carried it.

He strode purposefully into the kitchen, hilt held in one hand, scabbard tip in the other, and paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts on how to discuss the matter. At that moment Sam turned from the counter.

"Good mor…." the words died on Sam's lips as he took in the sight of Frodo in the doorway, Sting held out questioningly in his hands.

He gazed levelly at Sam, his face almost expressionless. He did not want to let on that he was irritated, but holding the elven blade in his grasp was having more of an effect on him than he had anticipated. The fire and darkness of Mordor seemed to be reflected up at him from the smooth surface of the hilt, the flames tickling at the dark void within his mind. Already a dull ache was forming at his temples, threatening to engulf him in a haze of torment. He covered the distance to the table in two steps; the sword impacted the surface with a loud clang.

Barely containing the rage that had mounted alongside the darkness, his eyes now glazed with wrath and pain, he managed to grate out between clenched teeth, "Why?"

Sam retreated a step, his hands gripping the counter behind him, his face a study in confusion and guilt.

"Mister Frodo I…"

But Frodo was suddenly not willing to wait for an explanation. Arms now braced on the table for support, he leaned forward towards Sam and demanded, "Why would you bring this out in the open? To remind us of our past?"

The anger still blazed in Frodo's eyes, and seemed to have quickened even more. Sam realized that there were only two ways out of this situation: to lie to Frodo, which his master didn't seem very inclined to take to, or to tell him the truth, no matter how painful.

Sam stood up straight, back still pressed against the counter, and met Frodo's gaze with equal intensity. "To protect you, sir," he stated evenly, as if this were the most rational explanation.

The mask of fury seemed to crumble a bit. The voice remained changeless and penetrating.

"From what?"

"You had a nightmare last night, sir, an' I heard you scream, an' I ran t' the chest and got Sting ‘fore I came t' your room, because I didn't know you was alone an' it was just a dream." The words tumbled out in a husky rush of sound as Sam took a hesitant step towards the table.

The anger drained from Frodo's features abruptly. His eyes turned dazed and vacant, his arms trembled slightly now not from tension but outflow of emotion.

"I did…?"

"Yessir," Sam replied, closing the distance between them, his hand gently brushing Frodo's shoulder. "You don't remember me bein' in your room?"

"No…" he whispered. His arms suddenly unable to hold his weight, he turned slightly and sank down onto the bench he had been leaning over.

"Do you remember the dream? It seemed like you were fightin' with Gollum…"

_Pain._

_He was barely aware of the motion, the ash, the fire, the rocks…everything was eclipsed by the pain. And the desire._

_The Ring burned with white hot fire at his throat now, pulsing, altering the rhythm of his heart to keep time with its dreadful cadence, allowing him to breathe only when It wanted him to, controlling every aspect of his existence save his hands, clasped at Sam's throat by his friend's fading strength._

_There was nothing left now, nothing stood between him and the Ring. The desire consumed his thoughts, his dreams, he ached with it, was suborned by it, was united with it._

_He no longer sought strength to resist it, his only wish was to live long enough to reach his destination. Once there he did not know what would befall him, he only knew he had to live until then._

_Suddenly he was crushed from above, a shrill cry torn from his chest. Waves of pain radiated through him as he crashed to the ground, quickly forgotten as the creature landed atop him._

_Lean, sinewy fingers grasping, struggling, extending with relentless and insatiable desire…to match his own. The Ring seethed in protest, searing into his flesh, into his mind as it screamed denial, demanded protection…and yet he heard it calling…to Gollum, suppliant and betrayer._

_He couldn't…fight him…not strong…enough…frenzied hands…tearing, scratching…closer…shrieks of torment…closer still…blinding agony…_

_Its voice, seductive, insistent, commanding: "Draw strength from Me, my own…"_

_"NO!…"_

He collided with reality as the scream died unvoiced on his lips. Sam was crouching on the floor before him, arms yet gripping his shoulders from the gentle shake that must have been given to return him to the here and now. His mind still reeling, he met Sam's troubled gaze as he struggled to breathe normally, fervently hoping his eyes were not at this moment a window of his soul.

_Oh stars, all of it was real…_

He had been having the nightmares for weeks--images, like flashes of time just beyond grasp that had permeated his peaceful oblivion of sleep and wrested from him the only respite from his ever-present lust for the ring. But as time passed, the fleeting wisps of remembrance had flourished twistedly into hideous beasts of nightmare that haunted and tortured, leaving him shaking like a frightened animal drenched in sweat and bitter tears. He had convinced himself that they were only visions produced by the lingering effects of the Ring. But this dream, this _nightmare_ was vibrant, and…Sam, Sam had known what it was about…it was real. All of it, all of _them_ , were real. They were memories.

_Was this how it had been?_ Insatiable thirst, stabbing pangs of hunger nigh onto starvation, exhaustion to the point of delirium… But this was not the worst of it. The power of the Ring had burned through his mind, producing an agony that was beyond definition. It had taunted him, dared him to try and resist it. It threw all his hopes and dreams and memories down so far that he would never be able to reach them again and replaced them with hideous visions of the future. Darkness covering all the lands, his friends in slavery and tortured, all because he would not claim the Ring. It pleaded with him to end this, to end their suffering and his own by doing this one small task…just put it on your finger, Frodo, and save them all…

And then…as they approached the mountain…and Gollum…

Even though he now had images, memories for some of these events, they were too painful to dwell on because that somehow gave them a reality his wounded soul was not willing to grant them. How does one fight an enemy that strikes when you are defenseless? He could do nothing against the shadows that raped his mind in the night. Sleep was no longer a refuge but a prison—a forced abandonment of the control he struggled to maintain.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but still his mind finished the thought that he had been trying to avoid.

It had tormented him. It had broken him. It had taken everything he was and perverted it to its evil uses, perverted HIM into something evil…and still, _still_ …he longed for it?

He bowed his head under the shame of it as he felt his cheeks heating and tears brimming in his eyes. He sat there for long moments, willing his mind to go blank, willing the memories to be just harmless visions, willing himself to stop thinking of that wretched piece of gold…until Sam gently shook him again.

"No…" he began, voice shaking so badly that he had to break off and try again, "No, Sam…the nightmare was not about Mordor. I don't remember anything of that place."

Sam eyed him quizzically, the doubt and suspicion etched plainly on his face.

The denial seemed to help contain his roiling emotions, but he had to be alone before he lost control…

"Sam I…I find I'm not feeling very well this morning, and it's apparent that I didn't get enough sleep last evening…"

"Mister Frodo…"

"…I think I'm going to go lie down for a while and rest."

Sam rose slowly, arms still grasping Frodo's, and gently helped his master to his feet. Hazel eyes met his with concern, but also with some sort of understanding that he did not comprehend, as Sam said gently, "Let me help you."

Frodo was grateful for that steadying hold; he surely would have swayed had he tried to stand on his own. Sam led him out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room, one strong hand still encircling Frodo's upper arm and guiding him.

Sam released him at the side of his bed, and as Frodo wearily sat down Sam made for the bedroom door.

"Shall I bring you some second breakfast after while, Mister Frodo?" as he stopped on the threshold of Frodo's room.

"Yes, thank you Sam, I'm sure I'll feel better by then," was Frodo's attempt at an enthusiastic response as he lay back on the pillow, the back of his maimed hand cast over his eyes.

A soft voice carried over the stillness, "I have nightmares about Mordor, too…"

Frodo startled and raised his head in time to see Sam slowly closing his door, a look of pity and compassion on his face. Their eyes locked in a moment of mutual understanding that Frodo did not have the will or the strength to deny.  



	3. Time and Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam struggle to keep watchover each other. Post quest.

Frodo awoke slowly, the morning caressing his face with soothing sunshine, even through his closed lids. He was aware almost immediately that something was not right. He did not feel…normal. As he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling, he became aware of what day it was…October the fifth.

_No. Could it be happening already?_

He had known it was coming for more than a week now…the nightmares over the past days had been especially vibrant and terrifying, and the darkness had seemed to hover at the corners of his vision, blending phantom and reality.

It had happened to him before…last March, on the anniversary of his encounter with Shelob. He had thought nothing of it before then, but as the thirteenth day of March wore on, he had felt the shadows rise about him. By evening they had overtaken him--he was delirious with fever and lost in Mordor, reliving again and again the horrors of that hateful day…held captive by the dark forces buried deep inside him.

The illness had lasted only that day; by morning he was himself again, although weak and shaken by what he had experienced. He had been able to keep it from Sam, as he was abroad tending to the wounds of the Shire and did not return until some days later. By that time Frodo had regained his strength and spoke nothing of himself.

But now, he was living with Sam and Rosie. If he became ill as he had in March, how could he keep it from them?

He raised his left hand from where it rested on top of his blanket, and flexed his fingers experimentally. They were already stiff and unwilling to do as he bade them, and his shoulder twinged in protest at the sudden motion.

It had already begun, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing he could do…

It waited for him. It hung there in the dark, behind the shield of time, waiting to consume him. These anniversaries would come as surely as the sun rose and set each day, and they would torture him. Evil had broken his will once before, and it would remind him on these days that it could do so again at its leisure.

Frustration and anger rose inside him as he thought about how truly powerless he was, even now. It was no different from before. He had been powerless the entire time while he possessed the Ring. There was no way to actively fight It. He had been forced to find a way to hang on to his sanity while It attacked, wore him down. At Sammath Naur he had also been powerless…he could not resist claming the Ring, and It had somehow overwhelmed him and made his choices for him. Powerless…

As he lay there seething with anger, a voice deep inside him crooned, _You deserve this._

_You deserve this for your failure. You deserve this because you almost destroyed Middle Earth…you would have destroyed Middle Earth if not for Gollum...why should you not now be powerless?_

It was true. He had decided on that mountain to take everything for himself, whether he remembered the details or not, and by some wild stroke of luck disaster had been averted and all of creation had escaped having to pay for it. He DID deserve this.

But Sam did not.

Sam had done everything on the quest just as he was supposed to do, and had even done one better than that by bringing his master down from Mount Doom to be rescued by the eagles. He had kept Frodo safe, just as he promised he would, and when he returned he had rebuilt the Shire to spite Saruman's evil deeds. He deserved a wife, and a family. Sam deserved to live without evil overshadowing him, without having to be reminded of those dreadful days.

So he had to keep trying. He had to keep trying to contain the evil within himself. He had to keep convincing Sam that everything was fine, and that he would be whole again. Maybe, just maybe he would eventually pay his penance for what he had failed to do, and then perhaps he _could_ be whole again.

Even though he was trapped and powerless, he would try.

Although his only wish was to sleep the day away, to avoid what he knew was coming, this would mean for certain that Sam would know something was wrong and would have to care for him. He rose gingerly from the bed, favoring his left side as he made ready to join Rosie and Sam for breakfast.

***

Summer had bowed gracefully to an early fall, and Sam had been so busy preparing the celebration for Mr. Bilbo's and Frodo's birthdays and bracing the garden for an early winter that he had forgotten to note another important date rapidly approaching. On October the fifth, Frodo had eaten first and second breakfast with him and Rosie, but had seemed withdrawn and distracted, enough so that Rosie had commented on it after Frodo had excused himself and headed rather abruptly for his study. The morning had passed quietly, he out in the garden planting delicate cuttings of elanor into pots for the coming winter, and Rosie bustling about the kitchen preparing a delightful-smelling lunch. Not a peep had echoed from the study that morning.

When Frodo did not appear in the kitchen for lunch drawn by the smell alone, he approached the study a bit warily, sensing that something was not quite right but unable to even hazard a guess what it could be. He knocked, and when no reply was forthcoming, gingerly peeked his head around the door. What he saw nearly made him gasp. Frodo was sitting behind the desk in his usual place, but instead of bending over his work as he usually did he was slumped back in the chair. Deep, bruised circles had appeared underneath piercing blue eyes that were unfocused, as if staring at something Sam couldn't see. His cheeks, which were pale to begin with but usually possessed small roses of color, were white as fine linen.

He ran to his master's side. "Oh, mister Frodo, what's the matter?" he cried. This seemed to rouse Frodo from his dream-state, for he jumped in surprise.

"Wha…oh Sam, is it time for lunch?" he asked weakly.

"Mister Frodo, you look ill. You should go lie down for a while," he stated in a rather insistent tone, hoping to persuade Frodo to listen to him before he had the chance to think about it.

"No…I'm fine Sam, honestly. You just…caught me daydreaming," Frodo replied more calmly, summoning the strength from somewhere to try and convince Sam he was all right.

Sam did not believe him, but there was nothing he could do. If mister Frodo said he was fine, he was not about to question it. So, he tried a different tack.

"Will you come an' have some lunch, then?" he asked gently, as he watched Frodo turn visibly paler at the mention of both food and movement from his chair.

"No, thank you, Sam, I'm not very hungry today, I'll be fine here," was the cheerily forced answer.

Sam was cornered. There was no way out of this but to try to force mister Frodo to rest, and that was just not going to work. The perils they had endured on the journey had bound them together and they had learned to depend on each other, but things had changed when they returned to the Shire. There were no perils here, and Sam was expected to be Frodo's servant and gardener, to mind his place. This made it easy for Frodo to keep things from him; it was not his place to question Frodo's judgment or to know his master's mind.

So, against his better judgment, he gave up. He ventured defeatedly, "Well, I'll have Rosie bring you a plate after while, in case you change your mind." As he left the room he glanced back over his shoulder to see Frodo wincing as he shifted in his chair, attempting to resume his work.

He had not even sat down at the kitchen table when he and Rosie heard the bone-chilling shriek echo through the smial. They both flew to the study to find Frodo splayed out on the floor, writhing as if in terrible pain and clutching his left shoulder. Sam crossed the room in two strides and knelt beside Frodo, pulling him gently into his lap. Frodo looked up at him for a brief moment, whispering "I'm ssssorry," before being overcome by another wave of agony. At that moment, trying to hold Frodo as he struggled against the pain, he brushed against his master's left arm. It was frigid to the touch.

That was when it hit him. The Wraith-king. It was October the fifth, and tomorrow was the anniversary of Frodo's near-fatal wounding two years before on Weathertop. It had not been this way last year! Frodo had been fine…or had he? Sam now recalled that day the previous year…it had chanced to fall as they crossed the Ford of Bruinen on their journey back to the Shire. Frodo had resisted riding into the stream, and had seemed to pass into a dark dream for some moments. He had been silent the rest of the day and Gandalf had insisted on riding beside him, while the others rode behind. It had struck him as strange then, but he had not guessed the true reason for Frodo's behavior at the time. As the pieces fell into place with a sharp click, his heart shattered in pity and desperation.

They put Frodo to bed, and comforted him as best they could as fever and pain ravaged him for three harrowing days. Sam was beside himself with worry. On the third day, he collapsed into Rosie's arms and wept, afraid that they had lost his dear Frodo forever to the chilling stab of the Witch King's blade. But later that day Frodo awoke, weak and still feverish yet no longer held spellbound by the evil Wraith-lord's gaze. His joyful relief at Frodo's turn toward recovery turned rapidly into rage.

He did not want Frodo to see him so angry. His poor master had enough to deal with. Frodo slept peacefully, so he left him in Rosie's care and although it was still early in the season, he found himself out behind the woodshed, squarely aiming his fury at a stout piece of wood and splitting it with all his might into kindling.

Why? Why was Frodo made to suffer like this? Hadn't he given enough of himself? Hadn't that cursed Ring TAKEN enough of him, now the evil would come to claim what remained, too? Why couldn't he just live in peace? He had done so much for this world and it gave nothing back to him but pain and haunting memories.

_Crack!_ Another log split beneath the weight of his anguish.

Frodo deserved more than this, so much more! He had saved Middle Earth from ruin. He had borne that _thing_ all the way to Mount Doom, as it gradually destroyed him from the inside out. He deserved happiness. He deserved a family. He deserved to not have to worry about anything for the rest of his days.

_Split!_

But Frodo did not seem to think so. Whenever he mentioned anything about Frodo being a hero, his master would bow his head as if it pained him. Frodo seemed embarrassed by the attention that he and Rosie paid him, and kept to himself now as much as he could.

Sam was losing him. He did not know to what or why, but somehow Frodo seemed to be slipping away from him, walling himself off to protect himself from…what? The nightmares? The memories that he did not want to reclaim? Sam himself? If only he could approach Frodo about it…

The whole thing made him even more furious, that what was happening to Frodo would cause him to behave so, to push away those that he loved and endure this, whatever it was, alone. And when would it end? Would Frodo ever be allowed to live in peace?

He was angry at Bilbo, for leaving Bag End and that thing behind in Frodo's care. He was angry at Gandalf for allowing Frodo to possess the Ring so long, for allowing It to sink Its claws into his gentle master's heart. He was angry at Strider for not protecting them better, for not preventing the Witch King from stabbing Frodo with his evil blade. He was angry at the Council for allowing them, so small and defenseless, to set out with the Ring. He was angry at almost everyone he could think of, and even a little bit at Frodo himself, for not allowing him to offer what little protection and comfort he could.

But he had to keep trying. Despite his anger at all of these things, it was not Frodo's fault that these things were happening now. He had to try his best to care for his master as he could. Even if Frodo did not appear to want it, Sam knew he needed it more than anything else. He would do his best to help Frodo become whole again, to have the life he deserved.

He spent the rest of the afternoon there, until he was exhausted and his anger at last was drained from him by the strain of hard labor.  



	4. Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam struggle to keep watchover each other. Post quest.

Merry arrived at Bag End several days before Yule, intending to spend the week with his cousin to celebrate the holiday and catch up on Frodo's doings in Hobbiton. He had not seen Frodo since late that summer, the last time he had journeyed out to Crickhollow to gather more details about his experiences during the War of the Ring to record in Bilbo's book.

Merry noticed immediately how pale and tired his cousin looked, but Frodo seemed quite cheerful and eager to spend time with him. They spent the days taking walks or examining Frodo's latest works of translation or writing, and the evenings smoking their pipes by the fire and reminiscing over old times. It was a wonderful few days, full of warmth and companionship and the gentle familiarity of long-time friends reunited.

But on the third day of their stay, Merry knew something was wrong. Although he did his best to hide it, Frodo seemed very distracted and nervous as the afternoon drew on, and Merry could have sworn that he had seen Frodo's hands shaking as he returned the manuscripts he had been showing him to their places on the large bookshelves in the study.

After that, Merry couldn't help but notice that Frodo was keeping his hands out of sight as much as possible, either stuffing them into the pockets of his trousers or hiding them behind some piece of furniture. As supper time approached, Frodo stated rather casually that he was not feeling very well and was going to lie down for a while. Merry looked thoughtfully after his cousin as he retreated to his room, knowing that Frodo was trying to hide something but not doing a very good job of it.

The day wore on into evening, supper was prepared and eaten, but Frodo never re-emerged from his room. Now Merry was more than a little concerned. He tried to dismiss Frodo's absence for what Frodo claimed it was, just a little upset stomach, but the whole thing made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end somehow—he knew there was more to it than that. He wished that Pippin had been there with him to see it, so his cousin could confirm his suspicion, but Pip had not yet arrived from Smials. He had decided to ask Sam about it as they sat by the fire for their evening smoke, but Sam beat him to the subject.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Merry lounging on the overstuffed couch facing the fire and Sam seated in Frodo's favorite chair beside him. Before long Sam leaned forward in his chair, both elbows resting on his knees and holding his pipe before him. He fixed him with a tentative gaze and began, "Mr. Merry, I wanted t' talk t' you ‘bout something, if you don't mind…"

"Sure, Sam, anything," he replied, favoring Sam with a warm smile.

If possible, Sam looked even more hesitant as he furthered, "It's about mister Frodo…"

When Sam did not continue, Merry met his eyes and said gently, "Something's wrong, isn't it?"

Sam now stared pointedly down at his feet, but stated rather clearly, "I'm worried ‘bout him."

Now that Sam had managed to get that far, his words came in a bit of a rush.

"I think things've gotten worse for him since we been back. He's jus' not his old self…not even close! For the first time ever, I don't know what t' do for him."

"I don't know, Sam. You can't expect everything to go back to the way it was…"

Sam's eyes shifted from the floor and silenced him with the force of emotion displayed there. There was a lot more to this than Merry knew. He began to get a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Has something happened?"

"He has nightmares."

"We all have nightmares," Merry replied, eyes downcast, a sudden edge creeping into his voice.

"Sure, an' I know, mister Merry, I have ‘em too, but not like this," Sam paused again, taking a deep breath.

"They're so real, an' they take hold of him so…I have t' shake him awake. An' it happens at least once a week, sometimes more, an' I know on nights it doesn't he jus' ain't sleepin'."

Sam looked up into Merry's eyes, saw his own worry now mirrored there, continued, "And tonight…his hands shake…and on days that it's too bad he jus' disappears. An' he was sick in October. On the anniversary of Weathertop. Oh, Merry, he was in so much pain...the fever lasted for three days. An' his arm an' shoulder are still awful sore, I can see it on ‘im."

_Oh, Frodo…_

Why was Frodo trying to hide this from them all?

Merry did his best to maintain his composure, but he knew the tears rimming his eyes were betraying him.

"Oh Sam, I'm sorry…"

_I'm sorry for Frodo, I'm sorry that you've had to deal with this alone…again._

"Have you tried to talk to him about it?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"I've tried talkin' t' him, but it seems t' pain him so. And he…jus' denies it anyway. He won't tell me what's goin' on. But I ain't blind, mister Merry, I can see him strugglin', an' it seems there's nothin' I can do t' help."

Sam took a deep breath, glanced nervously up at Merry again, and continued.

"I've been wonderin' if we shouldn't talk t' Elrond, or King Aragorn. Maybe there's somethin' they could do t' help him. I'm sure they could do a sight better than I'm doin'," Sam finished a bit shakily.

"Do you think it's that desperate then, that we should send word to them without telling Frodo?"

"I don't know, mister Merry," Sam sighed, frustration and anguish plain in his voice. "I don't want t' do it without talkin' to him, but I think he would jus' tell me I'm wrong anyway…I jus' don't know."

Sam buried his face in his hands, and the silence stretched out between them.

Could Elrond or Aragorn actually do anything? Elrond had healed Frodo in Rivendell, and Aragorn had brought him back from the Black Breath…but this was different somehow—it seemed…bigger. But where else could they turn for help? He vowed that he would talk to Frodo in the morning and see what he could find out for himself.

He glanced at Sam and noticed that the other hobbit still had not moved, his grief hidden behind those two strong, capable hands. After all they had been through, Merry still felt the need to protect both Frodo and Sam…

He reached forward and placed a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder.

"I want you to know that Pip and I are here to help, in any way we can. It'll be all right, Sam, you of all people know how strong Frodo is."

Sam picked his head up to gaze at Merry, unshed tears visible in his eyes, and rested his chin on his hand.

"But Sam, if and when you think it's necessary, send word to Crickhollow. Pip and I will set off for Rivendell immediately."

***

Frodo awoke the next morning, relieved that the previous day was over. He found he was feeling much better. Yesterday had been one of his worst days since October, and he was more than a little upset that Merry had been here to witness it. He hoped his cousin hadn't noticed the change in him. He had hidden it as best he could, but Merry was quite canny when it came to observing things…

When Merry greeted him at the breakfast table Frodo thought that his cousin had looked at him a little warily, but Merry said nothing.

After lunch, the two of them settled in the parlor for a pleasant afternoon curled up by the fire, just enjoying each other's company. Sam and Rosie had gone to market for the afternoon, so the only sounds in the smial were the crackling of the fire and their voices murmuring smoothly in conversation.

They talked of the news from Buckland and Merry's ever-nearing responsibilities as future Master of the Hall, and reminisced over their antics as hobbitlads growing up amidst the bustle that was the Brandybuck warren.

While Frodo was still chuckling over the time he and Merry had slicked the bathhouse stairs with soap, his cousin became very serious.

"Frodo, do you remember when I told you about my time in Minas Tirith?" Merry looked up at him with an odd expression.

"You mean in the Houses of Healing?" Frodo inquired, suddenly uneasy about the direction the conversation was taking.

"Yes, when I told you about the Black Breath."

Frodo shuddered at the mention of it, his memories of his recent battle with the phantom Witch King still vivid in his mind.

Merry noted the shudder, taking it as an affirmation, and continued on, "When Aragorn was working over me…trying to bring me back…it was as if that dreadful wraith was standing between me and the light, and the others were trying to pull me back into that deathly cold place…"

Frodo inhaled sharply as the images came unbidden.

_Standing over him, chanting, pulling at him with their minds…and the Witch King above them all, towering over him and reaching out with tendrils of thought and spectral fingers for the Ring…_

Merry was staring into the fire now, hardly noticing the effect he was having on Frodo as his own memories consumed him. "I made it back, and had thought that I was healed, but the pain in my arm remained and the darkness still hovered for a long time…"

_His denial…the wraith's fury…the vicious thrust of the dagger…waves of piercing cold and white-hot pain…_

"And it's still not over…when I'm asleep, when the night is still and quiet, he comes for me…"

Merry's voice rose in near-panic, which startled Frodo out of his own reverie to gaze at his cousin trembling before him, eyes focused on a vision Frodo couldn't see.

"Oh Merry, I'm sorry…" Frodo leaned forward and grasped Merry's trembling hands together, snapping his cousin back from his memories.

Now Merry did look up, mirroring Frodo's tear-laden eyes as he breathed in sharp, uneven gasps. He took a moment to calm himself, then very softly he whispered, "Does he come for you too?"

"I…" Frodo stammered and quickly looked down, angling his whole body away from Merry.

"Frodo, please tell me," Merry pressed gently, trying to draw Frodo back to him with his words.

"I'm fine," he replied, returning Merry's intense stare evenly.

Merry was not going to let him get away that easily, and they both knew it. Merry seemed to gaze thoughtfully at him for a moment.

"Frodo, I've known you all my life. I can tell when you're hurting. What is it that keeps you from telling me?"

_Oh Merry, if only I could…if there was a way that wouldn't hurt you too…_

"Merry, I _can't!_ " he grated, softening a little as he saw the hurt in his cousin's eyes. "Just please…let it go," he finished, sorrow edging his voice as he tore his eyes away and down to the floor.

Merry got up and paced to the edge of the fireplace. He turned on Frodo abruptly, "I just don't understand. After all you've done! You saved Middle Earth, all of Sauron's evil was destroyed, and still they hunt you…".

"I didn't save Middle Earth, Merry, I almost destroyed it!" he burst out, voice shaking with the sudden vehemence of his emotion.

Merry stopped mid-stride and stared at him. "You…what?" he asked incredulously, his shock and disbelief of Frodo's statement plain on his face.

"I failed, Merry, I didn't save anything."

This galvanized Merry into motion again, but this time towards Frodo instead of away from him. He knelt down before Frodo, looking deeply into his eyes with concern and understanding. "Frodo, do you remember what happened?"

In all honesty Frodo still did not remember those moments between his struggle with Gollum and the instant he claimed the Ring, but it didn't matter…the answer was obvious.

"No…" he breathed, "but I don't have to remember to know I failed."

Tears were now rolling down Merry's cheeks, but he stoutly ignored them as he looked tenderly at Frodo.

"You did not fail, because I know you did your best. That was all anyone could ask of you, and all you could have asked of yourself. And the Ring was destroyed. I don't know what happened on that mountain, and I don't care. I know that you managed to get the Ring that far, and did all you could do. And it was enough."

He paused, reaching up to cradle Frodo's quivering chin in his hand. "And it should be enough for you, too," he whispered, as Frodo dropped his head wearily on his cousin's shoulder.

As Frodo clutched the gem around his neck, Arwen's words came back to him as if he was hearing them for the very first time:

_If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of your burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed._

Maybe it HAD been enough…  



	5. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam struggle to keep watchover each other. Post quest.

The winter went hard for them all. Rosie was heavy with child and had to spend much of the time resting for the sake of the baby, which left Sam in charge of the house. Although Sam thought it terribly improper, Frodo helped out where and when he could, but many days he just seemed too tired to do the chores, and he was unfortunately not much use in the kitchen.

And Frodo's nightmares had continued…Sam would find himself in his master's room more often than not, and on the nights he was not awakened by Frodo's cries he was sure that his master did not sleep at all. Frodo was working on the Red Book quite determinedly now, and several mornings Sam had found him sprawled over its pages, mumbling in a fitful sleep.

Frodo had never spoken to him again about the nightmares…sometimes Sam wondered if he was even truly aware that he was there with him on those black nights. He suspected that at least some of the time Frodo recalled his presence there, but Sam was loath to remind him of the dreadful specters that disturbed his slumber. He hoped that by some given grace Frodo did not even remember the nightmares, but he always seemed a bit subdued the morning after those horrible nights.

Finally, March had come and spring was beginning to blossom out from under the darkling blanket of winter. Even though the air was still chill, the earth and its creatures were stirring with the promise of life. Sam had felt refreshed and renewed, and Rosie was eager to greet the new baby, but Frodo was restless, and growing moreso with each passing day. Since the month had begun Frodo was spending whole days in the study, and he only saw his master at mealtimes. What he saw did not please him. Frodo was exhausted. He looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks, and he spoke very little beyond general courtesy. He had let this go on for several days, and had finally decided that enough was enough and he was going to try and talk to Frodo.

He sat in the parlor on the morning of the tenth of March, gathering his thoughts to confront Frodo about what was bothering him. He suspected it had to do with the approaching anniversary… he was aware of the coming of this date, for his own memories seemed to be stirring and taking him back to those black and desperate hours in the Tower.

Sam sighed heavily and dropped his hands into his lap. This was going to be difficult. Frodo never talked of their journey, or any memories that he had. The only way Sam knew that he remembered anything at all was what he gleaned from Frodo's nightmares. Frodo never spoke of any of it, and he did his best to keep everything going on in his mind to himself. Did he honestly think that Sam couldn't see him struggling? He thought it was time that they talked about at least some of it. Maybe it would ease his master's mind…

He was startled from his reverie as Frodo came running into the parlor at full tilt, eyes wide and haunted. Sam jumped from his chair, old fears and instinct taking control as he turned in a defensive crouch to protect his master. It took him quite a few seconds to realize that nothing was there; Frodo was being chased by phantoms. He reached out to stop his master as he began to lunge forward again, but too late…

Frodo ran head first into the back wall and fell stunned, nose dripping blood onto the floor before him. Sam stood still for a moment, shocked by the violence of the impact, but he was galvanized into motion as Frodo attempted to rise from the floor, laying his hands on him and restraining him as he struggled to take flight again.

"No, Sam, let me go, you mustn't let her catch me!" Frodo pleaded hysterically, his voice breaking with tension and terror as he tried in vain to break free of Sam's strong grasp.

"Oh, mister Frodo, I can't stop her from catching you!" he exclaimed painfully, his heart clenching in his throat with every hitching breath that Frodo took as his panic escalated. He wept into Frodo's hair as he embraced his quivering master…

And then She came…

Frodo went stock still for a moment, and then fought him tooth and nail to get free. He had to apply quite a bit of force to hold Frodo down, as his master begged to be let go so he could escape. He almost fell to pieces with every word Frodo spoke, almost didn't have the strength of heart to imprison him there, waiting for her sting. Mercifully, he did not have to wait long. With one last desperate thrash, Frodo screamed in utter agony, a sound which paralleled the piercing wail that had been ripped from him as Gollum had reclaimed his treasure, and went limp, driven to unconsciousness by the pain.

He released his master immediately and held him close, his bitter tears mixing with the blood still trickling down Frodo's face. Frodo was already lost in delirium, his fever spiked high by her phantom sting. But Sam could not move, could not tend to Frodo as he should. He just sat there trembling, unable to control the mix of terror and rage and sorrow that tore through him. He wept in great convulsing sobs that rattled them both, until his chest was so sore he could barely draw breath. Reason came back to him then, and he took Frodo into his arms and cradled him, carried him to his bedroom to clean him up and care for him.

This illness was far worse than the last. Frodo had an extremely high fever for five days and was almost constantly delirious. He seemed to be in tremendous pain, crying out and writhing in response to whatever haunted his fevered dreams, and resisting Sam's efforts to give him water or medicine.

By the fifth day his master hardly moved at all and his breathing had gone shallow and ragged. Terror like he had never known pulsed through him…Frodo was not going to survive this. He couldn't possibly continue to go through this kind of pain and horrific remembrance any longer. His master was going to give in, surrender to the evil that held him and leave his poor Sam forever.

But Sam knew at that moment…it would be better that way. He did not want to lose Frodo, but even more desperately he did not want to see him suffer like this. If Frodo gave in, he would manage somehow, knowing that his master was at last at peace.

But it was not to be. Late that evening, Frodo's fever finally broke and he fell into a deep sleep. The demons had released his master and Sam wept in grateful relief, a release of his terror and fear for Frodo's life.

***

As he floated on the verge of consciousness, the first sound Frodo heard was soft snoring beside him. He opened his eyes cautiously to discover that he was lying in his bed and the source of the snoring was Sam, asleep in the chair beside him. What had happened? The last thing he remembered was…

The study…

He had been in the study, and it had been so hard to concentrate on the translation before him. He had felt like something was watching him…and then it all went blank…to now.

When was now?

He shifted a little on the bed, preparing to sit up, but stopped abruptly as pain shot up the back of his neck. He raised his hand from the coverlet with a great effort, stunned at how much of his strength it took to summon that trembling arm to bring his hand to the back of his neck. As he rubbed it gently toward the center of the pain, he encountered a small indented area with a slightly roughened, raised scar in the middle…Shelob…

He must have fallen ill. But it was the tenth, three days from the dreaded anniversary! He had thought he was ready for it this time. He had planned to close himself off in his room when he began feeling ill, and stay there until the fit passed and he was himself again. What had happened?

He dropped his arm wearily beside him with a soft thump, but it was enough to make Sam jerk awake rather suddenly. Sam looked exhausted. Smudges of darkness were gathered under his eyes, but his pale, worn features came alive with a brilliant smile as his eyes fell on Frodo.

"Good mornin', mister Frodo, how are you feelin' today?" Sam inquired, seemingly with all the cheerfulness he could muster.

"What…happened, Sam? How did I get here?" he asked slowly, not really sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Sam's face clouded a bit.

"You've been ill, sir. You fell ill on the tenth of March." His eyes slid away from Frodo's to fix on a point somewhere to Frodo's right.

"And what day is…today?" Frodo could feel the anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach. This must have been worse than the last time he fell ill…

"It's the sixteenth, sir, this mornin'," Now Sam's eyes sought to meet his again, but it was his turn to pull his gaze away as he stared at the ceiling in disbelief.

"The sixteenth?! I've been ill for five days?" An incredulous whisper aimed at the ceiling.

"What happened, Sam? Did you find me in the study in the afternoon? I hope I wasn't too much trouble…" He paused at he heard Sam catch his breath beside him. His friend's gaze was riveted to the coverlet.

"What is it, Sam?" He prodded gently, his heart clenching in his breast as he watched Sam fidget with his reply.

Sam couldn't bear to tell him the truth, couldn't even voice that Frodo's hallucination of Shelob had been so vivid that he had crashed into the wall with enough force to make his nose bleed, that he had held Frodo down while that hideous evil had pursued him, restrained him while She descended upon him and paralyzed him with her kiss. That he had sat there and wept until he couldn't anymore at how unfair it was that Frodo should have to endure this…

He couldn't protect Frodo all these past days, not from the hallucinations, the pain, the fell creatures that ravaged him in the night…but he could protect him from this.

"Yessir, I found you in the study at your desk."

Sam still wasn't meeting his eyes, which made Frodo quite uneasy but he continued slowly, "I remember feeling like something was watching me…"

"It was…Shelob, mister Frodo…She…She came for you…an' I was there holdin'…your…hand," it was soft, breathless, and now Sam's eyes did meet his, and the pain that was etched there seemed to run deeper than his own. He could not bear it. With a great effort he turned his head, gasping as agony flared anew between his shoulders.

"Oh Sam, I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, not thinking before he spoke.

"You? Sorry for what, sir? It weren't your fault!" Now Sam was up and at his side. He sat down lightly on the edge of the bed and took Frodo's hand tenderly within his own, touching Frodo's cheek with his other hand and gently turning his head back to face him. Their eyes met again, hazel confusion to clear blue sorrow and frustration.

Frodo looked down, unable to agree with Sam and wishing he could retract his apology. He could do nothing about how ill he had been, so it was best just left alone. But Sam still looked uncomfortable. Frodo could sense that he was holding something back, there was more to the story than this. He eyed Sam a bit quizzically, but he suddenly became aware of how tired he was as a yawn escaped him.

Seemingly relieved by the distraction, Sam reached up to brush the curls from Frodo's forehead.

"Here now, mister Frodo, you've been right sick an' I bet you're exhausted from all this talkin'. Why don't you rest for a bit now, an' I'll bring you some breakfast later?"

He wanted to pursue this now, but his eyelids seemed to be closing of their own accord. He would have to let it go.

"Thank you, Sam, I think I will," he mumbled as sleep overtook him.

Sam sat there on the edge of the bed, still holding Frodo's hand in his own, and bowed his head.

***

The illness had weakened Frodo greatly and he had lain in bed for another week still, unable to summon the strength to leave the confines of his room. They did not speak again of his illness, and Frodo did his best to appear cheerful and not complain. On the eighth day after the fever had broken, Frodo walked to the parlor, arm thrown over Sam's shoulder and leaning heavily on him.

He settled his master on the couch, and Frodo smiled up at him pleasantly. "Thank you, Sam, I do feel much stronger today," all the while trying to hide the fact that he was out of breath and trembling with the effort from just that short walk.

Before he even allowed himself to think about it, he blurted out, "No, I don't think you do, and you know it."

The silence hung there between them, and drew out so taut that the air seemed to crackle with its intensity. Well, now he had started it, so he had better finish it.

"Mister Frodo, I'm worried about you," he said, gently. "Why don't you tell me what's goin' on?"

Frodo gazed up at him, features under firm control, but he could not hide the pain blazing in his eyes as he evenly stated, "Nothing's going on, Sam. I was ill, and now I'm getting better."

The words cut into him like little knives as Frodo said them; it was a blatant lie.

"Do you remember, Frodo, what happened on that mountain?" he asked in exasperation, knowing he was probably going too far with this, but wanting, needing Frodo to tell him the truth about something. As he spoke, Frodo caught his breath and his hand traveled up his chest to Arwen's gem around his neck. He sat there quietly, eyes closed, holding his breath for what seemed like moments, his maimed hand clutching the stone so tightly that his knuckles appeared white even through his pale skin. After what seemed like an eternity, Frodo let his breath out slowly and met Sam's eyes with as shuttered a gaze as he could manage.

"No, Sam, only what you have told me. I still don't remember anything on my own."

Frodo couldn't hold Sam's gaze as he spoke, and it was a good thing, too, because otherwise his master would have seen the disbelief and raw pain wash over his features. He went weak in the knees, reached out to grab the arm of the couch as rage and anguish fought for control of his mind. He couldn't bear to take this conversation any further. Frodo was lying. Lying directly to him, and the worst part of it was that Frodo seemed to be aware that he would know it for a lie. But his master had lied to him anyway.

"I'll go fix you some tea."

He tried to keep his voice steady, but what issued from his lips was broken with so much tangled emotion that it was barely understandable. He left the room quickly, stumbling not into the kitchen but backwards and out the front door, closing it behind him with no small amount of force.

***

Frodo recoiled as if he had been struck as the front door of Bag End slammed shut with a mighty crash. He had never felt so alone in his entire life. Even on the quest, at least Sam had been there and had had some notion of what was going on, and Sam's own quest had been to protect him and care for him. And small comfort though it had been, on their journey the Ring had been there, a constant presence even though he tried to keep it at bay…but now he was alone…

He could not allow Sam to watch over him, now it was his turn to protect, but it seemed not to comfort.

_Oh Sam, can't you understand why I have to do this? Can't you see that there's no other way?_

He knew the answer to that question: Sam would never understand why he had to do these things. He wouldn't understand why Frodo couldn't tell him that the nightmares were becoming more and more intense as his mind pieced together the shattered fragments of memories from those horrible days. Why Frodo couldn't voice that his longing for the Ring was still as gnawing and insistent as it had been the moment his treasure was ripped from him, and possibly even moreso. He wouldn't understand that Frodo couldn't bear the thought of telling him that this last illness had weakened him almost to the point of submission. That he had to fight every day to regain his strength, and that he would not be the same again. He knew this in his heart.

It had pained him deeply to lie to his dear Sam. He couldn't even look him in the eyes to do it, he felt that guilty and ashamed. And it was becoming more and more difficult to conceal the truth. Sam knew he had been lied to, time and again, and today it seemed it was just too much for him to bear. He had hurt Sam horribly today.

But what else could he do? He knew that Sam had painful memories and nightmares from Mordor, but they were nothing compared to what he was slowly discovering had gone on in his own mind, what was now consuming all he had left. He could not let Sam see that the Ring had violated everything he was and torn it asunder, even if it would comfort him to do so. He had not been able to protect Sam from any of the trials they'd endured together on their journey, but he could spare Sam the anguish of knowing what had been lost inside himself. If only he could continue to endure it…

_Oh Lady, how am I going to continue on like this? Will there ever be an end?_

He was alone and trapped…fettered by his only two choices—to wound both himself and Sam by lying to cover up his struggle and heartache, or to unburden himself to Sam and allow his friend to share in his suffering.

There was only one choice.

For the first time since Cormallen, he allowed himself to weep in utter despair.

***

Sam fled to his garden, the one place in all of Middle Earth that usually gave him peace, no matter what his troubles were. It was not giving him peace today. He paced back and forth between the rock-bordered plots he tended so carefully, trying to calm himself.

It was too much for him. He was still on edge about the lie he had told Frodo just days before, and still recovering himself from the trauma of watching Frodo suffer so. After caring for Frodo through this last illness, after all they had been through together, Frodo was still hiding things from him at every opportunity. Why did Frodo have to do this? He wanted to scream to the heavens above, WHY?

He didn't think he'd ever been this angry before. He wanted to shake Frodo, knock some sense into him if he could, convince his master to trust him again like he had on their journey. Why could he not trust him now? Why did Frodo feel he had to go through this alone? Couldn't he see that he was not going through it alone, that it affected those around him, whether he liked it or not?

Whether he liked it or not…that thought gave him pause for a moment. Frodo probably did not like it. He most likely did not like it at all. He could not control this situation, could not hide everything he wanted to from the eyes of his friends. So why try? Why lie like this, knowing that his Sam would not be deceived? Now he was puzzled. He stopped pacing and sat down heavily on the stone bench in the middle of the garden where Frodo usually sat with his books.

What would make it worth Frodo's while to hide the truth, knowing that he could not convince anyone? Yes, Frodo was lying to try and protect him from what was going on. But what if there was so much more to it that Frodo was willing to lie as best he could to keep Sam from seeing how bad things truly were for him? What if they were much worse than he had even guessed, and that's what Frodo was guarding away from him? The answer hit him like the Three-Farthing stone and he gasped and nearly fell over from its weight. What if Frodo knew he was going to die?

The thought was almost unbearable. He clenched his arms around his stomach and leaned forward, trying to erase the thought from his mind. But it was more than a thought…it had a distinct ring of truth to it. The first truth he had come upon concerning his master in many months. All his anger turned to sorrow and fear, realizing for the first time that Frodo's quest was not over, and that the greatest sacrifice was yet to come. He did not know how long he sat there before he had spent all the tears he had, and his resolve grew firm.

If Frodo wished to bear this alone, he would make it as easy as possible for him to do so. He would not ask Frodo any more questions about what he remembered, and he would do his best not to become angry when his master tried to keep things from him. He would allow Frodo the dignity of choosing to spare his friends from his pain. It seemed that Frodo had so few choices left to make now, he would not rob his master of his right to make this choice, no matter how much it pained him.

When he returned to the smial he found that Frodo had fallen asleep propped up on the couch where he had left him, tears still staining his hollowed cheeks, and Sam realized with a stab of anguish that it pained his master to lie to him just as much as it pained him to be lied to. He gathered Frodo up into his arms and carried him back to the bedroom, gently settling him under the blankets and brushing his silver-dusted curls away from his face. His hand lingered there, as he recalled all the things Frodo had done for him over the years of their friendship…yes, he would do this one thing for Frodo. It seemed like all that was left that he could do.  



	6. Hope Unbidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam struggle to keep watchover each other. Post quest.

Two days later Elanor was born. She was the most beautiful child Sam had ever seen. His joy as he beheld her was boundless, but he soon found that even this was surpassed by the exultation he felt when he watched Frodo hold her. Still recovering from his illness, his master would sit for hours and cradle her while he worked in the garden and Rosie about the house. Frodo seemed to shine in her presence, and the shadows of the past months all but dissolved in her tiny grasp.

These weeks following his little Elanor's birth had been wonderful for all of them. As he strode up the main hall one May afternoon, he heard a sound he'd not heard since his time in Lorien—Frodo's voice raised in song. Low and rich, the soft tones of an elvish lullaby echoed faintly from the study and nearly stopped his heart with joy.

He crept slowly to the open doorway to witness Frodo seated in the old wooden rocking chair by the fire, Elanor nestled into the crook of his arm, her soft, downy head just visible over Frodo's other shoulder. He glided back and forth, lulling her with the gentle rhythm of motion and melody, his whole frame seeming to curl about her. Sam could not see his face, but Frodo's head was bent and his face angled sideways, gazing down at the infant with rapt attention and overwhelming tenderness.

Sam could have stood there for hours, watching the sunlight from the window fall on Frodo's downswept face, immersed in the incredible sight of his master at peace—something he had rarely witnessed in all the months since their return. It had become almost a familiar observance now, since his golden elf child had been born.

And he wanted it to last. Things had changed drastically since Elanor's coming. Although still haunted by the nightmares, Frodo seemed more serene, as if some of the struggle within him had been laid to rest. He wondered if perhaps he had been wrong about how serious things were for Frodo, and that maybe Frodo himself had been wrong. If this small child could illicit such a change in him, wasn't it possible that the darkness might not prevail? A tiny seed of hope again began to grow in his heart that his master might yet be healed.

At that moment Frodo became aware of his presence in the doorway, casting a look back over his shoulder to meet Sam's gaze with a contented smile. As he approached, Elanor whimpered slightly as if displeased with the sudden quiet and stillness, but Frodo pacified her again with a soft caress of her cheek and resumed his gentle rocking.

Sam stood over them now, and Frodo glanced up at him, whispering quietly, "She's been very fussy this morning, I've just gotten her to sleep a little."

"That's alright, mister Frodo, she sleeps plenty." _I wish I could say the same for you…_

But he swept that troubling thought out of his mind. This was a happy time, and the circles under Frodo's eyes did not look as dark today…

"Do you want to take her for awhile?" Frodo inquired, already shifting a little in the chair to offer his small bundle to Sam.

"No, you keep her, mister Frodo. I need to go get cleaned up for lunch anyways. Unless you're tired a' holdin' her…"

"No, Sam, I think I could hold her forever…" Frodo breathed, staring down again at the tranquil presence drowned in sleep in his arms.

_You hold her, mister Frodo, until it doesn't hurt anymore…_

Sam laid a tender hand to his daughter's cheek and left the study, a smile on his face.

***

As Sam quietly exited the room, Frodo settled back in his chair and gazed at the babe in his lap. Elanor. Small, perfect, and pure. Her warm smile and gentle fingers in his hair chased away the darkness farther than he had thought would ever be possible again. He worshipped her…loved her as if she were his own and cuddled her as close as he dared. At times, he was almost afraid to touch her, not wanting to expose her in any way to the evil that he carried within himself. But the sun seemed to shine from those sparkling blue eyes, and when she reached for him he could do nothing but gather her up into his arms and drink in the innocence and beauty of her untainted spirit. Her coming had aided him in ways that he could not begin to fathom—in the glow of her radiance he could again be free.

He wished that it could last, but she could not protect him forever. The weeks following her birth had been sweet and light, but the demons had still come to own him in the night, and he could feel the beasts of shadow drawing together in the twilight of Elanor's ambience.

But the freedom she offered him had given him time to think about what had happened to him and why. A small part of him still wept for how unfair this was for HIM. How had it come to pass that he had risked everything, saved Middle Earth, and yet had gotten not so much as his own life to live in return for his sacrifices? Was it because he had failed? Because in the end he could not cast away the Ring? He had thought this for a long time, and had accepted his suffering as punishment for his failure.

But Merry was right, what he had done had been enough. Whether he had cast the Ring into the fire himself or not, things would still have been the same as they were now because of the hold the Ring had had on him. His failure and his suffering were not a cause and effect. It did not matter that he could not cast the Ring into the fire, the Ring had been destroyed, and he had done everything he could to complete his quest. Could anyone have succeeded at what he undertook? He would never know, and could only believe that things had been meant to happen as they did, as Gandalf had told him.

He had offered his life to protect the Shire, and although it had not been taken from him on Mount Doom, he was forced to surrender it now—to relinquish all that he held dear, and to face the unknown path before him, for the sake of all those that he sought to protect. Now was the true sacrifice…to endure the effects of the Ring's evils until he could withstand them no more, and then to let go, and unburden Middle Earth forever of the Ring of power.

He would do it, he would leave with the elves for the Undying Lands. He had already given up his life in the Shire for the sake of this tiny child and all of Middle Earth, he had only to finish his task. It seemed that she had brought him the peace and presence to make the decision he had been unable to contemplate. That was her gift to him.

He did not know when he would leave. His heart had been so much lighter since Elanor's birth that he thought it might not be in the fall with Bilbo and Elrond. Maybe he would wait another year or two to watch Elanor grow and spend more time with Sam…if it could be time like this… If it could be time where he was not suffering, and did not have to struggle to hide the memories that were slowly consuming him.

He looked down again at the infant cradled in his arms, and hoped that he would have strength and peace enough to watch her grow for a little while more…  



	7. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam struggle to keep watchover each other. Post quest.

_The ground tilted wildly under him as he struggled to move one aching, bloody foot after the other. Every step towards the edge was more excruciating than the last…_

_He stumbled…fell…his knees and palms striking the blackened ash before him and embedding the fine gravel into his skin. But he hardly noticed the pain of this for the war that was waging within._

_It was his entire being now. Every part of him, every corner of his mind was consumed by the Ring, and there was nothing of him left. Its voice was all of existence_ …YOU…ARE…MINE!

_Somehow he rose again and lurched forward another step, and Its call intensified even more…grinding…squeezing…crushing…_

_His hands grasped at it now, and it burned like fire against his fingers…warmth to limbs already cooled by the breath of hovering death._

YOU WILL… _no!_ …SUBMIT…

_He clutched the Ring as he felt the sickening snap of all that was left of his sanity as the fire rose up in front of him in a mighty surge of fury…_

He came to himself, leaning hard against the wall in the hallway, gasping, gripping tightly to Arwen's gem around his neck.

_Oh stars, it had happened again._

He braced himself there, panting, grasping at the smial surrounding him with all his senses to convince himself that this was real…

They had begun to claim him even in broad daylight. The memories were so vibrant that they crashed into reality and overwhelmed it, and they clung to the good memories in his mind like vultures, gnawing and destroying what weapons he had left to use against the power of the Ring. All that was past and all that was now paled in comparison to those days on the mountain and to the growing shadow of the Ring in his mind.

His days of late had fallen into a dreadful pattern…an organized strategy to stave off the Ring's power over him. He would spend the day reading from his extensive collection of Elvish tales, or sitting in the garden on fair days, or playing with Elanor--these things were his only respite from Mordor, since his past memories of the Shire had failed him. He could live in this world during the day, letting Elanor's touch and Sam's soft glance and the words of the Elves comfort him, allow him peace from his wounds for a time.

By evening the only way to do battle with the memories was to face them head on - to focus on one event as if it was a weakness in the soul of evil and exploit it, to write it down in the Red Book. He was writing his own story now, stabbing into the darkness with all the might his quill could muster, hoping that flattening the events onto the page could expunge them from his memory. He would write for hours until exhaustion took him and then stumble wearily to bed, praying to the stars above for blessed, dreamless slumber.

He could not keep the darkness at bay anymore. It constantly threatened to overpower him, and he knew that his physical health was declining even further as a result. He rarely strayed farther than a stone's throw from Bag End now—just far enough to sit in the sunshine and watch Sam tend his garden. He had not the strength for anything more, so consuming was the struggle within his mind. The battle against the longing and the memories was taking all that remained of him. All his energy had to be conserved just to keep him here, grounded in this reality rather than plummeting into the dark and ever-widening chasm that was the Black Lands…and to keep his inner struggle hidden from those around him.

He was barely able to protect them now. Although he kept the battle raging inside him from their sight, he could not hide his weakness and his failing health. It pained him greatly to know that Sam was watching him, aching to speak and offer comfort—but something kept him from it, be it acknowledgment of place or respect for a dear friend, Frodo did not know. He still longed to tell Sam, to unburden his tortured soul and find solace even if just for a fleeting moment…but he could not. He could not lay upon Sam what he could not shoulder himself. He had to endure this alone, and offer Sam the chance to live unfettered—as it was clear that he himself would never be able to do again.

He had to leave. He had to go before the Black Lands came to claim him forever. He had to leave before he became a true burden to Sam and Rosie and little Elanor, before they had to watch over him for the rest of his days, lost in his own mind, a prisoner of insanity. It was coming soon, and he hoped he would be able to hold on until September, when Elrond and Bilbo and their company would pass through the Shire on their way to the Grey Havens.

He wondered if the elves would welcome him, if they would be able to heal his wounds…but he realized that this did not matter. All that mattered was that Sam and Rosie and Elanor, and Merry and Pippin would not have to see him suffering. As long as they were free of the burden he unwittingly placed upon them, it would be enough.

He pushed away from the wall and stood there for a moment, his hand still splayed out on its smooth surface to steady him. Then he began to walk down the hall towards the study.

***

Sam stood in the entryway to the kitchen, watching Frodo as he slowly made his way to the study, his left hand still trailing the wall for balance as he walked. Tears rolled silently down Sam's cheeks.

The peace that Elanor had brought to Frodo was slipping away with time, and his master was struggling now more than ever before. In the last week, he had walked by the door to the study several times and had noticed Frodo sitting at his desk, head in hands. His shoulders shook, and Sam had realized that he was crying—weeping silently as if in utter despair.

Frodo was dying. These demons from the past were going to consume him; there was no other way for this to end.

He should not have waited this long. He should have sent word to Merry and Pippin to go to Rivendell after Frodo had been ill in March, but Frodo had been so at peace after Elanor was born that he had begun to hope that things were not as bad as they seemed. And…he did not want to believe it…did not want to believe that after all Frodo had done, the evil that had touched him would claim what was left of his life. He had been a fool. He would send word to Merry and Pippin today.

He should not have let this go on as long as he had, he should have forced Frodo to discuss things with him much sooner. Because soon…soon they would not be able to say the things they needed to say to each other. It would be too late.

_Oh, Frodo, how did it come to this? I have respected your wishes, allowed you to bear this alone as best I could, but now you have to talk to me, you have to let me in to help you before you cannot help yourself anymore._

He would sit Frodo down this afternoon, and tell him that he knew the truth of what was happening, and convince his master to let him care for him as he had on their journey. Frodo had had his last wish for this long, but it could go no further.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he went back into the kitchen to compose his message to Merry and Pippin.

***

Sam returned from his errand to town mid-morning, and strode into the smial quite purposefully. He had spent the long walk composing what he was going to say to Frodo, and had steeled his resolve about what he was doing. Yes, this was the right choice, this was the best way to take care of his master. As he entered the main hall, he called out, "Frodo?" and received no answer. He proceeded up the hall to the study a little nervously, a strange fear suddenly gripping his stomach as he went.

Sam found him there on the floor behind the desk, shivering violently and delirious with fever.

"Frodo!" he cried as he fell to his knees beside the shaking form and carefully rolled him unto his back.

Frodo's eyes were open, but fixed in a blank stare somewhere over Sam's shoulder. He was drenched in sweat and hot to the touch as Sam gathered him up into his arms and just held him there, his mind reeling in confusion and sorrow. Why? Why had this happened now? This was no anniversary, it was the middle of summer! Why had he fallen ill now? "This is no time for questions, Samwise Gamgee," he scolded himself, "get Frodo to bed an' then worry about the why-fors!" He carefully lifted Frodo off the floor and got to his feet, gently carrying him down the hallway to his bedroom.

The fever had lasted for six days already—the longest time that Frodo had ever been ill since returning from the quest. Sam watched over him day and night, trying to lessen the fever by forcing Frodo to drink and cooling his face and forehead with cloths dipped in Athelas water. At times he seemed to rest peacefully, but Sam knew from previous experience that Frodo spent the long ordeal in the Black Lands. Sometimes he would be deep in fever dreams, rolling restlessly about on the bed and mumbling incomprehensibly to himself. But much of the time he was awake and delirious, living in real time the memories that played before his mind's eye. Some of the memories Sam could recognize, because he shared them with Frodo to a certain extent. Others were too terrible for Sam to even think about…Frodo spoke of things that had never happened, things that Sam imagined might have been if the Ring had not been destroyed. Sam could only guess that these were visions that the Ring had showed Frodo as he carried it, twisted realities designed to wear down his resolve and make him lose hope. These moments were the hardest of all, for both of them. It utterly destroyed Sam to bear witness to what Frodo had endured, and to watch him endure it again at the whim of some dark force that still lurked inside of him.

By the evening of the sixth day Sam was just beside himself with worry. It seemed there was nothing he could do until the illness decided to loosen its grip on Frodo. He was just forced to watch and wait, and plead to the stars that his life not be taken, not yet. Not before he had the chance to tell him all the things in his heart…

Sam sat beside the bed in Frodo's old wooden armchair, leaning back and resting gratefully as Frodo lay still for the moment in what appeared to be genuine sleep.

Suddenly, Frodo bolted upright, eyes wide and face pale with terror at whatever he saw. "No, you can't have it, I won't give it to you!" he cried, crawling backwards on the bed until he was pressed tightly against the headboard. Sam could only watch helplessly as Frodo clutched at his shoulder and screamed in agony as the phantom king of the Wraiths stabbed him with evil fury. Frodo collapsed against the headboard, still grasping his shoulder and whimpering, submerged in the pain that revisited him.

Sam got up and went over to him, gently laid him down again on the bed, and pressed a cool cloth to his forehead to try and comfort him. To his great surprise and relief, blue eyes met his and appeared to be looking at him for the first time since he had fallen ill.

"Sssam…?" Frodo struggled, barely more than a whisper.

"Your Sam is here, Mr. Frodo, an' everythin' is goin' t' be fine," he said warmly, the look of pain and grief transmuting to joy as he realized that the fever was finally breaking.

"Wwhat…"

"You've been ill, but it's going t' be alright now, I promise," Sam replied.

"No…no…it will never be…" Frodo's eyes were wild and desperate, his cheeks still flushed with fever—he was aware, but he was not himself.

"I…mmust…go, Sam…" Frodo managed urgently, trying to raise himself onto his elbows.

Sam restrained him gently.

"Shhh," he soothed, "you've been ill for several days now, you're not goin' anywhere."

Frodo lay back down and brought his hand up to grasp his still-aching shoulder.

"I can't do this, Sam. I've tried…I've tried so hard, Sam, but I just can't hold back the darkness anymore. Soon it will take me, it will take me away and I'll never be able to return." Anguish and sorrow lanced through his voice, and Frodo closed his eyes to try and halt the tears that had begun to stream down his face.

"I'm just so tired, Sam…"

These words came so painfully that they broke Sam's heart. He felt almost like an intruder. He knew if Frodo was a little farther from delirium, he never would have spoken this way, but Sam felt that he had to know what was really going on…had to understand what was happening to Frodo.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me things were this bad?" Sam asked gently, hoping Frodo was still altered enough to give him an honest answer.

"…had to p-protect you…to give you back the life I couldn't have…" Frodo replied dazedly, eyes still closed, wrinkled brow attesting to the pain in his shoulder.

"Why can't you have it?"

Frodo opened his eyes and gave him a look of confusion.

"Why can't you have your life back?" Sam restated, sure that the true answer would likely destroy him, but pressing on anyway.

"I will never be free of the Ring, Sam, and I have nothing left to fight it with anymore." Frodo peered at him for a moment, then stared up at the ceiling, continued hesitantly, "And the memories pursue me in my dreams…all the time…in my mind. They are so strong, Sam. They wash out everything else."

"And I cannot stop them…!" he spat the words out as a sob escaped from his throat.

"Oh Frodo…" Sam choked as he gathered Frodo's slight form into an embrace and the elder hobbit sobbed into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam…I can't protect you," Frodo whispered into Sam's shirt, "and I must leave."

Sam had braced himself for this, had tried to prepare for it, but now that the time have come he realized that it would tear him apart to have Frodo tell him he was going to die…

He took a deep breath, and shook out the words, "Where, where must you go, Frodo? Who can take better care of you than I can?"

"…I must go with the elves…into the West," Frodo breathed, spent from the effort of weeping and still quite feverish.

_The elves! Oh stars, could it actually be possible?_

A thousand questions sought voice in Sam's mind all at once, as he tried to sort out the most important ones to ask his ailing master.

"But Frodo, how? Will they come for you? Will it be soon? Will they be able to help you?"  
Sam whispered through the tears of relief now thickening his voice.

"…they will come…soon…Arwen said …to go…if I was still hurt…" Frodo struggled, as he slumped against Sam, exhausted.

If he hadn't been still holding Frodo, he would have jumped for sheer joy. Frodo was not going to die. All this time, Frodo had known that the elves were coming…

But with a stab of anguish, he realized he would still have to say goodbye. The Sundering Seas would part them forever, and he would not be able to see his dear master again. But if there was a chance for Frodo if he left Middle Earth, if it would ease his suffering and maybe allow him to live in peace, it was enough…it was more than enough.

Frodo had fallen asleep still tucked against Sam's shoulder, and as he tenderly laid his master back down he wept tears of joy that were soft and bittersweet. Frodo would not remember telling him these things, he was almost sure, but his heart had been eased. Now they would both begin to say goodbye to each other.

*******

**Author's note:**  
This story is complete through this chapter, but I have left several loose ends so that I can return to the story and write it through to the Havens in the future, should I decide to.  



End file.
